In her loneliness she is perceived

as ethereal and distant

yet the hours of solitude

her unspeakable burden

weigh heavily

upon her fragile frame

and her face, ghostly

a tracery of fine lines

aches for colour

anchored in the cold earth

she dreams of unfurling

out of the shadows and into the light

as season, after season, her petals open

into nothing but emptiness

the darkness ever clawing at her back

the echoes of wishes, dying in the void

her stark pale face

still haunts the night

and the wind carries her perfume

to all the places, that she will never see

© Ann Bagnall

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